


Tongue-Tied

by servecobwebheadaches



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Possible Character Death, Revealed at the very end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servecobwebheadaches/pseuds/servecobwebheadaches
Summary: Writing another album after the success of their debut release is stressful enough on its own.  Brendon doesn't need the persistent sore throat that he can't seem to shake, and Ryan doesn't need to worry about him either.  Even though Brendon knows Ryan would take care of him to the end of their days, it's just not worth it for Brendon to bother him with something so trivial as a cold.  Yet as time passes and Brendon isn't getting any better, it gets harder and harder to hide from Ryan that something might be seriously wrong.





	Tongue-Tied

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Casey just-folie-a-deux-it for being the best and betaing everything I ever post on this website. This one is kinda dark and sad but I hope you all will enjoy following this fic too!! Love you all.

Brendon will admit he’s done things to intentionally piss Ryan off.  He knows what pushes Ryan’s buttons, and sometimes when Brendon’s already angry or irritated—well, he just jabs a finger right into one of those buttons and watches Ryan fume.  Afterwards, Brendon always feels guilty. He knows it’s wrong to do that to Ryan, and he doesn’t particularly enjoy seeing Ryan upset. Especially not when it’s directed towards him.  Brendon strives to make Ryan happy most of the time and hates it the second he starts producing any other emotion from Ryan.

 

It’s all the worse when they’re trying to write music together.  In these instances Brendon never tries to make Ryan mad, instead following almost any request Ryan gives to him.  Generally, if Ryan wants Brendon to sing his lyrics as a whisper into the mic, or practically screech them like a bird outside the window at four in the morning, Brendon will do it.  Spencer or Jon might object, and Brendon might side with them, but that opens up an entirely new category of  _ Ryan v. Brendon _ fights.  Brendon wants what’s best for the music and their band.  He trusts Ryan’s vision as to what that sounds like, and so he abides by Ryan’s wishes.

 

He feels as though it’s safe to say it’s not his fault Ryan’s mad at him this time.  He’s trying to do what Ryan’s asking of him. Ryan wants him to sing higher, notes he knows Brendon can normally hit.  Today, though, Brendon’s struggling.

 

“It’s like you’re not even trying, Brendon.  You do this every night onstage, but you suddenly can’t sing when I’m writing a song?” Ryan sneers.

 

“I can try again,” Brendon says.

 

“Okay, I want to hear it.”

 

He begins the chorus of the song they’re working on, low-pitched at first.  He has more control over his voice in that range, although he still has a difficult time projecting his voice.  Over the past couple days, his throat has been hurting constantly, and it’s only getting worse the more he sings.  When he tries to sing any notes on the higher end of his range, his voice either cracks or completely dies out. As he reaches the middle of the chorus, he tries hitting the high notes Ryan wrote for him, but he already knows it’s a lost cause.  “ _ True lo-ove, is it a fairyta—?”  _ Brendon sings, only making it a couple seconds before falling silent.  He grimaces at the pain in his throat. Ryan scowls at him.

 

Brendon looks away, not wanting to face the idea of Ryan being disappointed in him.  It doesn’t stop Brendon from hearing Ryan, though, and getting his own temper riled up.  “Why am I even having you sing?” Ryan asks.

 

“Because you can’t get up here and do it yourself without having a breakdown,” Brendon snaps.

 

“At least maybe I’d be able to make it through recording a demo without my voice cracking.  I never said it had to be good, I just want you to sing the fucking song.”

 

“I—I  _ can’t _ , Ryan, my throat—”

 

“At this rate our second album will sound worse than our first!” Ryan interjects.

 

He clearly isn’t listening to Brendon, and Brendon is too tired to try to fight back.  It hurts to talk at this point, let alone shout, so he isn’t going to waste his breath trying to get Ryan to sympathize with him at the moment.  He knows Ryan is too caught up in his perfectionism on their music to care about much else.

 

Brendon begins to leave the room, head down, officially resigning for the day.  “I’m going to bed,” he mumbles, and closes the door of their makeshift studio behind him.

 

The rest of the cabin is quiet.  These patches of silence during the day have become more and more frequent since they’ve been up here—a strange occurrence, considering the four men who currently reside in the estate.  Peacefulness like this only comes in the aftermath of an argument between Brendon and Ryan, when the two aren’t speaking. Their best friends have taken to sitting outside instead of watching a fight unfold.  Brendon’s currently appreciative of this, as he enters his own room in the cabin. He’s decided he needs the afternoon to rest his voice and sleep. Maybe, he thinks, this will be enough to bring his throat back to normal by tomorrow.

 

Although Brendon vastly prefers Ryan being happy, he doesn’t lose sleep over Ryan being upset with him.  From experience, he’s aware Ryan’s anger won’t last. Once he’s out of the headspace of trying to write the perfect song, Brendon’s feelings will go back to being Ryan’s highest concern.  Brendon’s secure enough to not fret about that.

 

He gulps down some water before crawling in bed.  As soon as he lays down, he falls into a deep sleep that not even the racket of Spencer and Jon re-entering the cabin could wake him from.

 

What does wake him is Ryan, hours later.  Brendon’s room is completely dark when the door creaks open and light floods in.  He drowsily blinks, looking for the source of his awakening before the door shuts.  In the dark again, Brendon can’t see anything, but he can hear soft footsteps. Whoever decided to come in Brendon’s room is obviously trying to be quiet.

 

“Ryan?” Brendon rasps out.  He immediately regrets using his voice, as it sends a throbbing pain up his throat.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Ryan whispers.

 

“What’re you doing in here?” Brendon asks, sitting up on his elbows.

 

“I just wanted to check on you before I went to bed.  You’re sick, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah, my throat hurts,” Brendon says, and two coughs are forced out of him, only accentuating his statement.  

 

He feels the mattress dip slightly with the weight of Ryan sitting on the edge of his bed.  “I’m sorry I was so pushy today, B.”

 

“It’s okay, I know it’s frustrating.”

 

“You still don’t deserve it. I’d want to kill someone if I heard them talking to you like I was.”

 

“You don’t mean anything when we fight.  You just like to sound bossy sometimes.”

 

Ryan chuckles.  “I’m glad you know that.  I hope you also know that you’re a beautiful singer and I’d have none of these lyrics without you.  I should’ve known you were sick . . .”

 

“You’re very sweet, Ryan.”

 

There’s a lull in the conversation, just enough for Brendon to realize how tired he still is.  His eyes close involuntarily. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to sleep,” Ryan says. He stands from the bed, but lingers above Brendon.  “I think you should take tomorrow off, too. Rest that angelic voice.” Ryan bends over to press a kiss to the front of Brendon’s throat, then one to his lips.  It brings a smile to Brendon’s face, and he reaches for Ryan before he can leave.

 

“You don’t have to sleep alone.  I’ve forgiven you,” Brendon says.

 

“Good.  That’s a relief.  It doesn’t feel right to leave you alone when you’re sick, anyway.”

 

Brendon moves over for Ryan to slip under the covers next to him.  “Yeah, you have to stay to make me feel better.”

 

“You’re so clingy,” Ryan says, but he obviously isn’t complaining, as he wraps an arm around Brendon to pull him closer.  Brendon thinks Ryan’s kind of right; he loves being held while he sleeps like nothing else.

 

“I love you,” Brendon whispers.

 

Ryan kisses the top of Brendon’s head, nose pressed into his hair.  “I love you too.”

 

Brendon sleeps soundly in Ryan’s arms, not moving an inch, until they’re both awoken mid-morning by Spencer.  “Great, now you’re both going to be sick,” Spencer proclaims, in order to wake them up.

 

“I won’t get sick,” Ryan replies, beginning to sit up.

 

Brendon groans at the prospect of being awake.  His throat already hurts, and he wishes he could go back to his pain-free sleep with Ryan to comfort him.

 

“Come on, Jon wants to show you a melody he wrote yesterday, I think it’ll go well with some of your lyrics, Ryan,” Spencer says.

 

Ryan pulls the covers back to get out of bed, but tucks them back around Brendon before he goes.  “You sleep as long as you want, okay?” Ryan says.

 

Brendon nods to spare the use of his voice.  Ryan quietly closes the door behind himself, and Brendon shuts his eyes once more.  He manages a couple more hours of sleep before he fully wakes up, restless with energy.  It’s early in the afternoon by that point, but Brendon stays in his pajamas to join the rest of his band in their mid-day activities.

 

Ryan’s already taken to driving himself crazy with the meticulous details of writing a song.  His head is down, overgrown bangs falling to cover his eyelashes, staring at his fingers on the strings of the guitar he holds.  Spencer has departed from his normal position at his drum set to stand beside Ryan, along with Jon. Both are tentatively watching as Ryan fumes on about the flaws in the series of chords he has written.

 

“I can’t even figure out how to get this to sound the way it’s supposed to for this song.  God, it’s fucking impossible. Maybe . . . maybe it would sound better on acoustic . . . maybe . . .” Ryan mutters, then goes back to strumming his guitar, brief and soft.

 

“It would probably be good for you to take a break,” Spencer says.

 

“Yeah, you’ve been working on this for awhile now,” Jon agrees.

 

“In a minute, in a minute.  I just want to get this right.”

 

“You said that an hour ago.  Come on, you should go check on B.”  Spencer rests a hand on the end of Ryan’s guitar.

 

Brendon coughs from where he had been standing silently in the doorway.  His three bandmates startle and look up at him. Brendon chokes out a good morning greeting, but is only met with multiple looks of concern.  Before receiving any response, Ryan lifts his guitar strap up and over his head, setting the instrument down on the floor as he stands. “I’ll get you some water,” Ryan then says, brushing past Brendon to leave the room.

 

He doesn’t get a chance to say thank you, so he moves to pick up the notebook of lyrics Ryan left and a microphone.  The soreness of his throat seems to get worse when he thinks about using his voice to sing, but he wants to contribute his part to the band regardless.

 

“You don’t have to sing, B.  Especially if you’re sick,” Jon tells him.  “Ryan’s not even ready for you to sing most of what he has written.”

 

“I want to try what we were working on yesterday again,” Brendon says.  Ryan re-enters the room—Brendon knows from the feeling of the hand on his spine—and a glass of water is placed in his hands.

 

“How are you feeling today?  Any better?” Ryan asks, wide hazel eyes searching Brendon’s.  His gaze is gravitating to Brendon, and he can’t help but stare back at him for a moment.

 

“A little better, yeah,” Brendon says, and clears his throat.

 

“Do you still want to take the day off from singing?  You can rest more.” Ryan’s tone is hushed with worry, saved for Brendon and Brendon alone.  Brendon finds himself blushing, unable to hold eye contact, from the subtle intimacy of it.

 

“No, I want to sing for you,” Brendon says.

 

Ryan looks like he wants to retaliate for a moment, then nods in acceptance. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself, so just stop and take a break whenever you feel like it, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Brendon answers, but he has no plans of taking breaks if he doesn’t have to.  His throat may hurt, but he’s played shows where he’s been even sicker. He has a drive from somewhere under his skin to create, to sing, to make Ryan’s words come to life.  For now, while they’re locked up in a cabin with the intention of writing an album, Brendon isn’t going to let some cold stop the band from doing just that. Ryan’s not the only one who wants to have something done by the time they go back home.

 

With that, it only takes a few hours before Ryan and Brendon are back to having the same fight from the previous day.  Ryan’s nothing but caring, at first, when he notices Brendon struggling to sing. He gets him more water and suggests they all take a break.  It’s Brendon’s aggression in insisting that he’s okay that sparks their conflict. He argues his sickness isn’t what’s causing him to fuck up the notes, it’s Ryan’s expectations being unrealistic and over the top.

 

The jab at Ryan makes him more heated, and they go back and forth about the song into the evening.  Ryan insists time and time again that Brendon’s singing the words with the wrong inflections, the wrong pronunciation, the wrong tone, and he’s too stubborn in his vision to make any changes.  Brendon thinks it’s just Ryan’s perfectionism getting out of hand to an irritating extent, making Ryan difficult to deal with.

 

Jon has to convince them both to step away from the verse and do something else,  _ anything _ else, and they finally agree, with tempers still high.  Ryan picks up where he left off, just him and his guitar, to work on the other song from earlier.  Brendon paces around for a few minutes, as if it would get out the angry energy he held, before laying down on the couch.  He stares at the wood ceiling, taking in the patterns of the grain, and notices his eyelids feel unusually heavy. He hasn’t even been awake that long today . . .

 

A loud crashing sound is what awakes him from his doze. He jumps up from where he was laying, and hears another crash.  “I’m done!” Brendon hears Ryan say, followed by, “I can’t play this piece of shit anymore!”

 

Brendon doesn’t move, but watches Ryan storm out of their practice room, dragging one of his favorite guitars along on the floor behind him.  Ryan yanks the front door of the cabin open in order to throw his guitar outside. It smashes when it hits the hard ground, sending the wretched noise through the air of strings snapping and wood breaking.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Brendon asks.

 

“Quiet,” Spencer says, pointing at him, striding out from the practice room behind Ryan.

 

Brendon keeps his mouth shut, but joins Spencer in following Ryan around.

 

“I’m never picking up a guitar like that again.  Ever,” Ryan says. He’s going through the kitchen, searching for an object unknown to Brendon or Spencer.  Finally he finds it: a box of matches. Spencer rolls his eyes at the dramatics of it all, and Brendon gulps.

 

It’s dark outside now, but Ryan doesn’t seem to care.  He brings the newly-broken guitar out farther from the cabin, into the road.  Brendon stays a safe distance back as Ryan strikes a match and drops it on the exposed wood of the guitar.

 

Brendon’s never seen Ryan have the sort of breakdown he’s having currently.  It’s not out of the ordinary for Ryan to cry tears of frustration, or work himself to the point of passing out from exhaustion.  This anger and destruction, however, Brendon doesn’t expect from him.

 

“It’s the end of the electric guitar era,” Ryan states, voice eerily calm as the guitar goes up in flames in front of them.

 

They’ve been working tirelessly for weeks on music without much distraction, so Brendon supposes that would take its toll on anyone.  He believes that may even be the reason he’s sick now. It makes sense for Ryan to be cracking under his own pressure to write something beautiful and make it exactly the way he’s envisioning it. Brendon just hasn’t expected Ryan to burn one of the nicest guitars he owns when he’s unhappy with the way a song is sounding.

 

A squeal emanates from the guitar as the flames hit the strings, a puff of smoke rising along with it.  The glow from the fire flickers across Ryan’s face, and his eyes light up from the reflection. Ryan stands there, unmoving, close enough to the guitar that the popping embers start to hit his clothes.  Brendon steps a little closer to Ryan, with the intent of grabbing one of his hands and pulling him away before he accidentally gets burned. Ryan doesn’t budge, though, he just laces his fingers with Brendon’s without looking at him.  Brendon bites his lip, not daring to speak.

 

Jon comes rushing out of the cabin, sprinting past Spencer, Brendon, and Ryan to dump a full glass of water over the guitar.  The fire dies, taking the primary source of light away, and Brendon can’t see anything for a moment. Smoke hits his nose, his eyes burn, and his already sore throat sears in newfound pain.  When his eyes adjust in the dark, he sees Jon on the other side of Ryan, an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s call it quits today,” Jon says to Ryan.

 

“I’m sick of being a guitar player,” Ryan says, to no one in particular.

 

Brendon squeezes his hand, and is about to suggest to Ryan that he focus on a different instrument, or maybe even vocals, the rest of the time that they’re up in the cabin, when he starts coughing.  Although the fire has been put out, there’s a burning sensation in his throat. The heavy smoke that came from abruptly dousing the flames clogs Brendon’s throat, his airways, and he lets go of Ryan’s hand to clutch at his neck.  He turns away from everyone, uncontrollably coughing and gasping in more of the smoky air. His eyes water, and the pain keeps getting worse.

 

Between the sound of his coughing and the general darkness of his surroundings, Brendon’s startled when he hears Ryan’s voice beside him.  “Are you okay, babe?” Ryan asks.

 

Brendon would say he’s fine, of course he’s okay, but all he can do is gasp and cough more.  He figures it must sound worse to Ryan than it actually is, and wishes he could tell him.

 

“We’re going back inside, okay?  This smoke is just going to make it worse,” Ryan says.

 

Brendon manages to nod, and leans into the arm Ryan wraps around him to guide him into the cabin.

 

His coughing fit fades and stops by the time they’re out of the smoke and at the door.  As his breathing calms down, he’s left with a dull buzzing in his head and a full-bodied exhaustion.  He parts with Ryan to collapse back down on the couch, a tension in his neck and shoulders falling away.  “I have some tea I think you should drink, B. It might make your throat feel a little better,” Ryan says.

 

“I hate tea,” Brendon groans, before even considering Ryan’s offer.

 

“I can make it sweet for you.”

 

Something hot would feel nice on his throat, Brendon thinks, and the idea of having any solace to his pain overpowers his typical disgust with the drink.  “Okay,” Brendon simply says.

 

“Good.  It’ll just be a few minutes.”  Ryan comes to sit beside Brendon after starting to warm up the water.  Brendon studies Ryan’s expression, still concerned about Ryan’s unpredictable moods, but he seems to have calmed, everything back to normal.  Ryan runs a hand through Brendon’s hair, and Brendon sighs, pushing up into his touch. “I’m sorry,” Ryan says.

 

“For what?” Brendon frowns.

 

“For making you have a coughing fit.  I know you’re sick, and I should have thought about it before starting a fire.”

 

“You should be apologizing to your guitar.  She didn’t deserve that.”

 

“I hate that guitar.  I won’t miss it,” Ryan insists.

 

“It would have made a nice bonfire if you weren’t so mad at it.”

 

Ryan laughs.  “You wouldn’t have enjoyed that.  No bonfires for you until you’re all better.”

 

“You’re going to cure me with your magical tea, aren’t you?”

 

“I sure hope so,” Ryan says, “but some vocal rest is what’s really gonna work for you.”

 

“I don’t wanna be on vocal rest.  I have to be your singer, or else we’re never going to get a song done.”

 

“I want us all to take tomorrow off, you especially, and then after that I’ll put you on guitar if you’re up for working.  But I don’t want you overworking yourself.”

 

Brendon pouts, and Ryan kisses him for a short moment until a timer starts beeping from the kitchen.  “Don’t get mad at me when you get sick!” Brendon calls with a smile.

 

“You’ve never made me sick before,” Ryan says.

 

“My throat has never hurt this bad before,” Brendon says.

 

Ryan doesn’t heed Brendon’s warning, and continues to kiss him whenever he wants and nestles in close when they fall asleep at night.

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

The burning of Ryan’s guitar proves to be cathartic, as Ryan gets notably more productive with his writing afterwards.  He’s taken to using acoustics instead of electric guitars, and it changes the tone of the music to something Brendon can only think to describe as pretty.  By the time their last few days in the cabin comes, they have the foundation of about ten songs, even if they still sound a little rough around the edges.

 

Brendon’s managed to sing in a range wide enough to appease Ryan, even if they both know it doesn’t live up to what he’s normally capable of.  He’s still in pain whenever he sings, but it’s bearable, and definitely worth it for the sake of the album. Once he’s back home and can properly rest, with no pressure, he’s sure he’ll get over whatever cold he’s got.  It’s been like this on tour before, where his throat has persistently hurt for a couple weeks, but it always gets better when he’s off the road. That’s just what it’s like to sing for a living, he supposes.

 

Three days before they’re scheduled to go back to all their separate homes—Jon back to Chicago, and Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon scattered throughout Vegas—and Ryan wakes up unable to speak.

 

Brendon finds this out early in the morning, awoken by the slight trembling and feverish heat radiating from the body he’s pressed up against.  Ryan’s eyes are open, but they seem to be darker and duller than their normal bright hazel color.

 

“Baby,” Brendon says, sitting up, “are you okay?”

 

Ryan just sort of pouts and shakes his head.  He swallows with a wince, and Brendon knows it must be Ryan’s throat hurting him.  He looks miserable.

 

Brendon gives Ryan strict orders to stay in bed all day, and Ryan doesn’t protest.  He also doesn’t try to combat Brendon when Brendon makes the decision to start packing for them to leave the next day.

 

Spencer’s extremely smug over the fact that Brendon did indeed get Ryan sick.  Brendon, however, doesn’t think he’s the only reason for Ryan’s illness. While his sore throat may be contagious, Brendon hasn’t spiked a fever like Ryan has, making his entire body ache and sending him shivering.  Ryan’s seem to have gotten way more sick than Brendon, and Brendon can only hope that Ryan’s cold won’t last as long as his.

 

Ryan doesn’t have to do any of the work of packing, of course, as Brendon takes over for both of them.  He does have to disturb Ryan a few times with questions concerning clothing. For so long, Brendon has taken to wearing Ryan’s shirts, and Ryan with Brendon’s, that Brendon can’t always remember the rightful owner of each and every article of clothing.  Even through Ryan’s fever daze, Brendon suspects a couple times that Ryan’s purposefully claiming Brendon’s t-shirts to be his own. Brendon finds it endearing; he would gladly give Ryan the clothes either way.

 

Eventually, Brendon assumes Ryan gets fed up with him pestering him every few minutes, and that’s why Ryan pulls him down to lay in bed.  “Brendon, babe, I wanted to talk to you,” Ryan says, voice strained and quiet.

 

Brendon’s throat hurts worse just hearing him.  “What is it?” Brendon asks.

 

“I know I’ve been awful to you since we’ve been up here,” Ryan says, “I’m so sorry.  You should yell at me a lot more. I don’t deserve you.”

 

Brendon smiles.  “You’ve just had a couple bad days, that’s all.  I love you,” Brendon says.

 

Ryan laces their fingers together.  “I love you too. I hope you know how much I love you.  I was just wondering if you would maybe want to . . . Um, will you stay with me after we leave this cabin?”

 

Brendon feels sparks of excitement light within him, and his smile turns into a full-fledged beam.  “Stay with you? Like, you want me to move in?”

 

Ryan’s face flushes, and Brendon doesn’t think it has anything to do with his fever.  “Yeah, if you want to. I, uh, I know you have your own place now, so I get it if you would rather not, but then at least we wouldn’t have to worry about this whole separate packing thing, and—”

 

Brendon silences him with a kiss on the mouth.  “Of course I’ll move in with you. Ryan, I’m so excited!  Are you sure you’re not just asking because I’m taking care of you while you’re sick?  Because this isn’t permanent, I’ll want you to take care of me sometimes, too,” Brendon jokes.

 

“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” Ryan says.

 

Brendon can’t help himself, he laughs and kisses Ryan again and again, until he’s sure what Ryan asked him is really real.


End file.
